


part i: lenity[→UNDESERVED]

by dweeblet



Series: Rooke to H1 [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Autistic Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Closure, Connor Deserves Happiness, Coping, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Panic Attacks, Personal Growth, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Repression, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-23 17:14:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15611079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dweeblet/pseuds/dweeblet
Summary: This is just a list of outstanding tasks. A mission.Connor wonders, briefly, if this is his first official self-appointed mission. Not an assigned case or a pre-determined chore or an arbitrary task—this is an original composition with no outside interference dictating his priorities, but it still matters. Even though it means something to Connor beyond that fact, it is doubly special because it is his.There is no reason for that knowledge to make his thirium hum so ardently. He decides that he likes it.





	part i: lenity[→UNDESERVED]

**Author's Note:**

> most of this was written between the hours of 1:00-3:00 AM so it's probably bad but i want to expand on this little series. it doesn't directly follow the first work, which is a bit like a setup/prologue deal while i figure out what the fuck is going on with the rest of the story. plan is currently looking at some technically unconnected oneshots within the universe, little moments that chronicle the mess that is hank & connor's relationship. because the end of the first one was... too sad.
> 
> and also  
> fuck david cage you vicious trollop. tie up your fucking loose ends you cowardly shit.

The previous night is pleasant, unduly so, and the pair of them nearly slide back into something like normalcy. For the first time in what seems like ages, Hank does not shoot Connor that awful, stricken look on the way out of work—his eyes are steady disks of cool gunmetal blue, indecipherable even to impressive capabilities of Connor’s micro-expression recognition program, but it is progress. They hold eye contact with tension, but a velvet blanket of understanding has settled in the space between them, tentative but steadfast, and patient, and soft.

 

On the way home from work obscure jazz-metal fusion fills the cabin of the car with whistling notes and deft bass, and the music keeps them from talking. They arrive at Hank’s residence at approximately seven-thirty in the evening and are greeted by an ecstatic Sumo at the door, whose nails tap rapid and eager on the hardwood as he greets his people.

 

Somehow, once settled, they end up in companionable silence, punctuated only by drivel and small talk the likes of which Hank has always hated, skirting around the issue at hand, but it’s something to fill the silence. Hank is, as a general rule, far too blunt for his own good, and it sets off a chain of warnings from Connor’s behavioral analysis subroutine to witness him winding in such a desultory fashion between points A and B. The break from expected routine is vaguely uncomfortable for a variety of reasons, but Hank is really trying, and that does something to slacken Connor’s thirium pump regulator, drawing his artificial heart to pick up speed.

 

Call him naive, but Connor clings to little moments like that, silken filaments that have all too often slipped between fingers held within the stiff regulation of machinery. He holds them close, delicate, precious things. It is an involuntary reaction, but one he makes no effort to resist.

 

These things are frivolous and irrelevant, but that only drives him, on some impossible, irrational instinct that bubbles up from the twisted wreckage of his protocols, to cling to them all the more fiercely. There is no protocol for this, and no matter how his system may scream for resistance, Connor is okay with that—he has to be.

 

He would be lying if he said that it doesn’t hurt him the morning after, when he emerges from his “sleep” stasis cycle at eight forty-seven AM to find that Hank is gone. There is no note, no unread text message waiting at the periphery of Connor’s internal heads-up display—nothing. Just an empty house. 

 

Spending the night together, just enjoying shared company despite the discomfort lurking just out of reach, had done more than a little something to put Connor’s mind at ease, and he had embraced that feeling. By all indications, according to his social protocol and deviant sentimentality alike, this had been a sign that things were getting better between them. 

 

It put him to rest with clean diagnostics and a weight lifted from his mind that had shackled him for many days prior—but with the honeysuckle sunlight peeking through the window Connor is left alone, and Hank has abandoned him in more ways than one. All at once that burden crashes back into his systems like an anvil on his chest, compressing his thirium pump, putting friction on his thermoregulator until the back of his neck burns.

 

The error messages flooding his vision are incomprehensible and mostly pointless. His artificial sympathetic nervous system responds to a threat that isn’t there with a simulated adrenal response, choking on the wave of unbridled  _ hurt _ that takes his metaphorical feet out from under him, leaving Connor to flounder against the riptide. 

 

This reaction is utterly uncalled for and he knows it, but it stays with him no matter how many environmental scans insist that there is no imminent danger, and deep-reaching diagnostics assure him that he is bodily unharmed. It’s Saturday, so there’s no way Hank would willingly go to the precinct without Connor’s prompting—and he likes to think that, if something came up that was important enough to get him out and about before noon on the weekend, Hank would say so. There is no trace indicating that Hank is still in the house.

 

Connor knows this because he checks. The shower is off, and the bathroom door is open. Hank is neither snoring nor rummaging around in his room, and he is very obviously not in the kitchen or the sitting room. There are four cans of lite beer scattered over the table in front of the couch, one of which is half-full and still slightly cool—that tugs uncomfortably at Connor’s innards, makes his components feel twisted and swollen within his casing because Hank had only sipped at a single hard soda for the entire length of the film they watched last night.

 

He made the effort of waiting until after Connor had slipped into stasis to drink more heavily, as though Connor doesn’t already know about his weeknight outings.

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 25% (STABLE)] _

 

Connor does not think about the sweat and unfamiliar perfumes that cling to Hank in the wee hours of the morning, or the Black Lamb that isn’t from home.

 

Sumo, now the object of his attention, has moved from his spot beneath the coffee table to his worn old dog bed, splayed with his hind legs all askew like a tragic motor accident, or a great furry rug. He blinks up at Connor with his dark, droopy eyes, lapping at his jowls before sighing through his nose and putting his head back down to resume sleeping.

 

His food bowl is already in the neighborhood of fifty-three percent full when Connor checks, so he decides not to refill it for now. The clatter would rouse Sumo, and needlessly, seeing as the dog is perfectly content to graze on what kibble remains from last night’s supper. Despite his adoration of the sweet-natured beast, Connor is in no mood this morning to entertain his energetic wiggling at the moment, so it’s not worth the trouble for either of them. He does top off the water, however, then turns his attention to running a quick reserve check on himself.

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT SYSTEM THIRIUM LEVEL = 89% →GOOD] _

 

His coolant and saline levels are in similarly good condition, and his biofuel conversion tank can go at least another two days without cleaning. With that squared away, Connor pads in sock-feet to the spare room across the hall from the toilet—it is blank and colorless, like every last speck of personality and hominess has been scrubbed away with a vengeance. It used to be Cole’s room.

 

Once inside, he strips and changes clothes with little fanfare despite the pang in his chest when he notices just how strongly his shirt smells of  _ Hank _ —a deeply human musk of faint leather and grain, the slight sandalwood tinge of cheap deodorant. Connor organizes the remainder of his things in a vain attempt at distracting himself. He makes sure his quarter is in reach, a cool weight in the pocket of his windbreaker, and takes along a thin wad of cash, mostly fives and ones. 

 

Most places take electronic payment, and Connor is perfectly capable of interfacing with their transaction systems directly, but the economy is still struggling to get back on its feet, and he will pass plenty of homeless folks no matter where he goes. It’s not like he’s using his paycheck for much else.

 

(And it is a mission, and missions are familiar, and familiar is soothing. He need soothing right now.)

 

_ [→DIRECTIVE =  DISTRIBUTE SPARE CURRENCY] _

 

It is vague, but it gets the job done.

 

He takes a lime green sticky note from the kitchen counter and jots down a quick note— _ I’m going out and I don’t intend to take too long, but in the event that you arrive home before I do: I am fine _ —to leave as a warning for Hank. Maybe the older man will be pleased about this development, seeing how often he insisted that Connor make more friends “his own age” in the days immediately following the revolution. Maybe this cold-shoulder business is his stubborn, gruff way of encouraging the android to branch out. Maybe.    

 

As he locks the door behind him, Connor resolves very firmly not to feel—not about  _ this _ . He already destroyed Hank’s glock and dumped his strongest booze, so it’s out of his way to start playing roulette again, even if he’s still willing to sink his spending money on a bar instead of something actually helpful. Hank, like all humans, is an illogical creature.

 

Connor should know better than to think he can change. Statistically, there is always a chance for unlikely events to take place—but they are not to be expected. His system issues a needless warning as his software instability spikes.

 

The temperature outside is just above freezing at thirty-five degrees fahrenheit and steadily climbing as the sun grows nearer and nearer to its afternoon rounds. The snow, pushed into sooty banks on the side of the road by dirty plows and shovels, is starting to pool into soupy slush-puddles at every divot in the sidewalk. In some places it sloshes up nearly to the ankle of his brown tactical boots, but Connor pays it no mind. The air is mostly dry, and the sky is clear enough for the sun to beat coldly down onto the city like an unblinking searchlight eye. There is a less than ten percent chance of further precipitation.

 

He boards the bus at the end of the empty street, pointedly ignoring the android compartment in the back of the vehicle to snag a seat near the doors in order to observe the street passing by through the streaky window. The ride is silent save the grumbling of the engine, which is in sore need of a tune-up, and the soft chatter of strangers drifting through the air. Energy is low in the musty warmth of the vehicle. Connor disembarks at the plaza, which finally seems to be wholly recovered in the wake of the revolution. 

 

The Cyberlife store hemming in the strip right behind the bus stop was once left empty and dark by protests, but Connor is pleased to see that it is now an android community center. The reclaimed building serves as an all-purpose rest-stop complete with walk-in maintenance clinic, “pharmacy,” and even a small upgrade shop stocked with cheap cosmetics and experimental thirium-based consumables. His people have made the place their own, and a current of vicious satisfaction thrums through Connor’s biocomponents at the sight of his former masters’ corporate prison remade into such a beacon of warmth. 

 

It is yet another irrational feeling. Vindictive, Connor thinks. Part of him is inclined towards something like guilt at taking pleasure in the misfortune of another, but that other is also  _ Cyberlife _ . He cannot bring himself to feel terribly bad.

 

The android idles for some time, willing himself not to think as he takes in the languid bustle of the open space. It is not nearly as busy as it once was, population still thin and subdued in the wake of unrest, but by no means is the city devoid of life. Youths, human and android alike, throw clumsy wads of wet snow at each other, bounding and tumbling through the muddy slush as their guardians look on with bemusement from the benches flanking the park. 

 

Humans chatter with one another about pointless, pleasant things, and with androids as well, largely indiscriminate. There is a low hum of static in the air as androids in the immediate area interface freely through the open wireless network, a filigree mesh of hazy sensation and deviant code exchanged en masse. 

 

The sheer volume of foreign, complex data is nearly overwhelming to Connor’s fine-tuned senses when he brushes his acknowledging consciousness against the collective. His knee-jerk retreat is met with an understanding thrum that vibrates in the air, and the bulk of participants politely skirt his internal server when broadcasting their material.

 

Not everything has healed, even now, but it’s pleasing to see the march of progress in action: androids and humans, living together, unreasonably kind and open, hand in hand on the path to simply  _ living _ . The din of uncertainty and panic is quiet now, suspended someplace far away.

 

Connor considers the stark irony of the situation as he buys an armful of hot cocoa in flimsy paper cups from a pair of children—one android boy and a human girl who have erected a little stand near the parking meters—and tasks himself with handing the warm drinks out to anyone who looks like they need it. 

 

The parolee spearing soggy and windswept garbage on the snowy lawn, shivering but intent on her chore. A frazzled-looking man huddled beneath the bus stop who looks like he might cry into his phone. The bleary-eyed beat cop sagging against a parking meter, while they survey the shopping center. He finishes off his modest pocketful of cash by spreading it over two or three of the homeless whom his scans indicate are in most dire need, with less-than-ideal vitals and ratty clothing.

 

It is a small and broken thing, residual from his time as a machine, but the heady pleasure that rushes through his circuits at the  _ [MISSION SUCCESSFUL] _ in the corner of his vision is relaxing, even through the slight pang of guilt that fizzes beneath his skin.

 

After that Connor lets his feet carry him where they will, comfortable in the knowledge that his internal GPS will always be able to guide him home even if his attention is turned elsewhere. Prior to his deviancy, he was never allowed, or even capable of letting his mind wander, but Connor finds that he does not wholly dislike the daydreamy sensation that comes with just soaking in the world for the sake of it, without the pressure of a case driving his observations. It helps to distract him from heavier matters, like the pit of regret looming in his thoracic cavity.

 

Connor’s wanderings eventually find him at the reception of an apartment building in a more wealthy central neighborhood—in either direction the street leads to expensive city shops and dining, all within easy walking distance. The sidewalk is very cleanly shoveled and scrubbed free of ice in front of the building, and a textured black mat beneath the awning defends the floor from the worst of the dirt and dampness from outside. The revolving door is stainless and sleek, framed with abstract decorations through the frosted glass. 

 

He shifts from foot to foot in the lobby, restless. Despite himself, Connor feels deeply out of place here.

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 18% (STABLE)] _

 

There is no physiological benefit to redistributing his weight like this, but Hank says—or, he did when they were still talking—that it’s “fuckin’ creepy” when he stands up so rigid and still like he used to Before. The small amount of energy expended to square his shoulders far outweighs the risk of possible lower lumbar damage, but that said… the heart wants what it wants, no matter how irrational and short-sighted. 

 

It isn’t quite  _ cathartic _ —no, that is too strong a word, but it makes him feel better, somehow. Looser.

 

It is pointless.

He hasn’t been here in nearly a year—but his memory is photographic, and 1554 Park Avenue has undergone little change; still expensive without personality, lavish and prim as ever. The floor is made of sleek powder-blue marble that reflects every straight white edge, and abstract pieces of monochrome art are arranged along the smooth grey walls leading to the reception desk and elevators. 

 

He doesn’t like this kind of grossly planned art-deco architecture. Hank’s house, or even the break room at the precinct, is something much better. Cluttered and close and warm, carved out over a long time into something just the right shape—not  _ perfect _ , but more than enough. The best homes are found in happy accidents, Connor thinks.

 

This just feels… deceitful. It reminds him too much of Her, Amanda with Her pristine trellis and strip-stemmed roses without bite. The polygonal sculpt of Her bridge and Her sharp, empty eyes cutting through the tangled blanket of honeysuckle and ragweed like the shears that maim the rosebush. It is made to look natural but Connor knows better. It feels painfully, sickeningly fake. Like Her.

 

(The remnants of last week’s blizzard are outside, and Connor is adequately covered. Why does he feel snowmelt crawling down his neck?)

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 31% (STABLE)] _

 

The woman sitting at the desk before him appears… put off, Connor thinks. She seems to be very focused on the potted plant ( _ maranta leuconeura _ , in need of watering) which sits approximately zero point four meters to his right.

 

They have made eye contact no fewer than twenty-three times for as long as he’s been here, and preliminary surface scans indicate that her heart rate is slightly elevated—not enough to push the upper limit of normal and consequently evoke concern for her health, but enough to catch his interest nonetheless. She is looking at  _ him _ .

 

His first instinct, etched deep into the alloy of his bones and the basest protocols of his code, is to run her face through a database to find her name and criminal record, if applicable. However, Connor has grown to understand that such an act is an invasion of privacy, and that, as Hank so eloquently put it, if he “wanna know shit,” he should just ask. 

 

(Look where that got him.)

 

He dithers a moment, plucking at a loose thread on the waistband of his borrowed jeans, which are much too wide and saggy to reliably stay up on their own. Though at first reluctant at the prospect of the change, he’s now rather glad to be out of his stuffy Cyberlife-issue uniform. 

 

Even if he misses the habitual action of adjusting his tie or his cuffs, the joys of comfort clothes are an unexplored wonder to his freshly-recalibrated subdermal sensors. Today it’s loose jeans, a soft tee and a monochrome windbreaker with little personality, but Connor supposes he’ll be able to explore his tastes in due time. Hank used to suggest, very forcefully, that Connor free up a weekend to go shopping. 

 

It had always been something to file away for the future, certainly, but it is also irrelevant. Connor’s sensory array is cutting edge, and that had never been an issue before, but for an emotional mind the input has become nearly overwhelming to parse. 

 

Deviancy, despite its perks, including but not limited to free will and civil rights, has lead his thoughts to become easily diverted. Without the imperatives of Cyberlife’s programming assigning his priorities, Connor is left to sift through the constant bombardment of information on his own. He is not yet very good at it. He flicks what less vivid stimuli he can pinpoint away from his immediate awareness in favor of resuming his analysis of the current situation. 

 

Connor is not irritated by this distraction.

 

The point is that his clothes, while perhaps a bit ill-fitting, don’t seem to be particularly outrageous as far as he can tell, and he is almost certain there’s no more blood on his jacket from the last crime scene he was called to investigate, so why does the woman keep looking at him with such perturbed diligence? 

 

She seems to be on the verge of reaching for the phone—oh.

 

_ [→QUERY = IDLE DURATION?] _

_ [→IDLE DURATION = 00:16:39.26] _

 

Connor checks his internal chronometer to find he’s been standing in this exact position for nearly seventeen straight minutes, and that, despite his ambient fidgeting, most humans do not remain stationary for this length of time unless anticipating something or otherwise occupying themselves. He has done neither… in fact, he hasn’t even announced himself—he comes off as being  _ suspicious _ , Connor realizes. 

 

For a top-of-the-line forensic analyst with the DCPD, Connor has noticed his tendency to be shockingly obtuse outside of cases, despite his best efforts to the contrary. This amuses him thanks to what he now recognizes as  _ irony _ , and his face twitches without his prompting.

 

He resists the automatic impulse to reach for his coin, instead clasping his hands awkwardly at the small of his back as he moves towards the desk, leaving slightly wet footprints from the snow melted in his treads. The calibration exercise turned comfort-object is doubtlessly soothing, but it also attracts unwanted attention from humans. No one else is in the lobby at the present, but the act would still be out of place—so, unhappily, Connor refrains from indulging himself. 

 

(He rarely knows what to do with his hands nowadays, seeing as he had never been concerned with them before, and it irks him, a thin blanket of static prickling somewhere between his endoskeleton and artificial skin.)

 

_ [→QUERY = DIRECTIVE?] _

_ [→DIRECTIVE = CONFIRM TARGET WHEREABOUTS] _

 

“Hello,” he greets the woman, wetting his lips.

 

It’s analysis disguised as a mannerism. His mouth is always adequately lubricated with a solution of ninety-nine point five percent water, point four percent sterilized saline and point one percent thirium-based solvent in order to facilitate both speech and analysis.

 

Hank’s tongue presses against his upper lip when he’s nervous or agitated, which has been a lot in recent weeks, when Connor manages to power through his avoidance and see him. Other people in the bullpen do it, too—similarly accompanied by physiological signs of mild stress.

 

Connor is not nervous. He does not (cannot) get nervous.  He _can_ , however, taste the air, the chemical fragrance of the woman’s perfume, particulate contaminants in the form of dust and lingering city exhaust. Nothing to note, he concludes; no drugs, no alcohol. A faint hint of nicotine wafting from the receptionist’s mouth, but it’s accompanied by the wakening spice of mint—gum to supply her fix without tarring up her fragile human lungs.

 

“Hi,” the receptionist replies, donning a fake smile. Part of Connor, somewhere between his infiltrative social module and some irrational deviant instinct, wants to mirror her, but Hank insists that he hasn’t yet managed to “crawl outta the uncanny fuckin’ valley, Jesus Christ  _ please _ stop.”

 

It had been a good day when he said that.

 

( _ un·can·ny val·ley _

_ noun _

_ noun: uncanny valley _

_ used in reference to the phenomenon whereby a computer-generated figure or humanoid robot bearing a near-identical resemblance to a human being arouses a sense of unease or revulsion in the person viewing it _ .)

 

That is not conducive to the success of his current task, so he settles for a polite bob of his head and prays that the movement isn’t too stiff as she asks him, “How can I help you?”

 

“Do the Phillips still live here?”

 

“Why do you ask?” Presses the woman, and her tone makes it seem almost like an interrogation. Yes, almost certainly suspicious—Connor can detect mild arrhythmia, a slight spike in cortisol, and idly predicts a small increase in concentration of triglycerides in the woman’s blood as her stress levels rise a solid eleven point three five percent at his approach. “Are you expected?”

 

“No,” Connor admits truthfully.

 

_ [→LIKELIHOOD OF SUCCESS = 34%]  _

 

“I’m not…” His deviant gut twinges at what could, perhaps, be considered an abuse of power, but his more rational mind assures him that this is the most efficient mode of progression. No one is getting hurt on account of a flashed badge. He recalls that Detective Reed had been extremely displeased to hear that Connor was registered as an abiding member of the department as opposed to a piece of equipment, and, consequently, bestowed this item. Perhaps this was his concern?

 

(Detective Reed had stormed into Captain Fowler’s office when that announcement was made, roaring loudly enough to rattle the glass as he gesticulated and fumed. He howled until his voice was ragged about the “plastic prick” that was stealing his job, that Fowler couldn’t possibly do this and expect to get away with it.

 

President Warren’s executive order and the pending Android Equality Act of 2039 begged to differ—and so did most everyone else at the precinct, it seemed.

 

There was even a little welcome party to greet him when he first returned to the bullpen after confirmation of his role. Officer Wilson—Mike, he insisted on being called—had actually gone out of his way to gift Connor a stainless steel Newton’s cradle for his desk.)

 

But Connor is distracted again, and he returns his gaze to the receptionist. The interruption from within does not frustrate him in the slightest, not at all. For the issue at hand—cursory observation does not suggest that there will be any issue in mentioning his place in law enforcement, but…  

 

Broad preservation of human wellbeing ( _ AV-1 _ ), while now bumped to Connor’s tertiary long-term subdirective, preceded by self-defense ( _ AV-3 _ ) and defense of his compatriots in the second and first slots respectively, is still in the top three, and it irks him not to adhere. Habit begs him to run a simulation, just to confirm. It is complete in approximately point zero four seconds and yields a less than one percent chance that anyone, human or android, will be directly harmed by this action.

 

These results are satisfactory. Reed surely overreacted.

 

Such a small chance of collateral is well within acceptable parameters, so he allows it, pulling the badge in question out as leverage. “I am not expected,” he repeats. “However, I’m actually with the DCPD.” He holds the badge out a moment for the woman to see, then returns it to its previous spot nestled in the inner breast pocket of his windbreaker.

 

_ [→LIKELIHOOD OF SUCCESS = 76%] _

 

She blinks her way back to attention, trying in vain to hide her scrutinizing study of his face, and her hovering fingers retreat from the phone beside her terminal. According to his infrared overlay, there is an unusual amount of heat being distributed to her face and ears, and her heart rate has yet to return to normal levels—she’s embarrassed, and her sheepish tone makes Connor feel vaguely uncomfortable. “Ah,” she says. “Of course, Detective…”

 

“Just Connor is fine,” he supplies mildly. “I’m off-duty at the moment, but I wanted to follow up on an older incident—”

 

_ [→LIKELIHOOD OF SUCCESS = 99%] _

 

“Oh!” interrupts the woman. “The hostage situation on the roof?” At Connor’s look, she explains, “It was all over the news when it happened, and they brought it up again last week talking about that RK800 in the revolution, since it worked as the negotiator. Didn’t you see?”

 

Connor blinks and tips his head. There’s a beanie (100% acrylic, freshly washed and bearing significant traces of surfactant) embroidered with the Knights of the Black Death logo covering up his LED indicator—she doesn’t recognize him. Something flutters in his thoracic cavity and Connor thinks it’s relief, even if he doesn’t like the way she called him an “it.” Or maybe because of that.

 

“I don’t watch much news,” he deflects. “That being said, I was preoccupied on-scene—”

 

“For obvious reasons,” the woman interjects, nodding sagely. Connor does not think she is at all as wise as she seems to imagine herself in making this remark.

 

“But I remember,” he takes a slight pause and ignores the odd prickle of guilt on his neck in favor of continuing. “I remember that little girl being so scared. It seemed pr—I  _ wanted  _ to… Visit. Check in.”

 

“I understand,” the woman assures, sympathetic. “They’re still here, never left. The roo—”

 

_ [→DIRECTIVE = CONFIRM TARGET WHEREABOUTS →SUCCESSFUL] _

_ [→DIRECTIVE UPDATED = ENTER TARGET DOMICILE] _

_ [→SUBDIRECTIVE = ENGAGE TARGETS] _

 

“It’s alright,” Connor takes his turn to interrupt, as politely as he can with a raised hand. “I remember where they are; I just wanted to make sure they still lived here.”

 

“Sure,” says the receptionist with a gentle smile, less fake than the first. “It’s good of you to check in on them, what with all this  _ revolution _ business.”

 

Connor nods, turning to the elevator so she won’t see the pinched face he knows he’s making. It is an involuntary response. Something about the way she spat the word “revolution” makes his regulator stutter, thirium heating in its vessels as his chassis seems to tighten around his biocomponents. He is filled up by a sensation somewhere between anger and disappointment that he cannot aptly name. A quick search brings up “resentment” and “frustration” as potential matches, but such simple words seem woefully inadequate.

 

He is careful to ensure that his simulated breathing does not hitch, but the cooling function of airflow through his “lungs” does not soothe the burning ache just below his thirium pump. Perhaps it bothers him so much because, for all intents and purposes, the woman seems to be such a pleasant individual. Connor’s chemical receptors detected no stink of red ice or alcohol on her breath or her clothes, and his social module failed to recognize a suitably bitter and acerbic demeanor to betray her bigotry. He knows more than well enough that looks are nearly always deceiving, but that does little to keep his deviant hindbrain from pinning it as something very close to betrayal.

 

There is no protocol for dealing with an instance such as this, so he doesn’t. It is irrelevant.

 

Instead, he huffs needlessly through his nose and steps into the elevator next to a pair of humans: a twenty-something woman dressed in a nice pencil skirt and jacket accompanied by an older man with a cane—her father, if Connor’s assumption is correct. He is once again tempted to scan them for further information and confirmation of his thoughts, but refrains, instead raising his brows and dipping his head in polite acknowledgement.

 

The gesture is not returned.

 

He punches in his number and stands beside them in awkward silence. They get off on the thirty-first floor, leaving Connor to idle in the elevator alone until reaching the top, where the Phillips’ penthouse lies. 

 

_ (The RK800 unit calibrates. Seventy stories at approximately one meter per second by hydraulic lift yields nearly four minutes of preparation in the boxy cell of the elevator. It reviews the brief packet, dissecting what little information its human masters have gathered thus far. Failure is not an option. It must complete the mission at any cost.) _

 

He squares his shoulders and sets off down the hall with purpose, rubbing his hands together to ease the staticky restlessness in the wires of his nerves.

 

There should only be two people living inside this apartment, as far as Connor’s intel can supply. Caroline Phillips, born 2001, and Emma Phillips, born 2028. It takes three brisk knocks and approximately four seconds for a child’s voice to call out: “Just a m—I’m coming!”

 

_ [→SETTING = AURAL RECEPTOR SENSITIVITY (MASTER) +50% →PROCESSING…] _

_ [→ADJUSTMENT SUCCESSFUL →SETTING = AURAL RECEPTOR SENSITIVITY (MASTER) →150%] _

 

The shower is running farther within the apartment and little feet patter on the floor (socked or in slippers, based on the muffled quality of the sound). Connor waits patiently as the girl’s steps grow near the restroom, muffled by the hiss of hot water on porcelain, and she argues with her mother inside.

 

“I’ll need a minute, Emma. If it’s Max, would you let him in and show him under the sink?” 

 

“If it’s important they’ll be able to wait until you’re done,” the girl replies, tremulous. “I-I’m not ready to—”

 

“You can check through the peep first,” her mother soothes, raising her voice slightly over the continued splashing of the shower. “But we can’t make them stand out there all alone. Is that okay, Emma?”

 

“O-okay.”

 

Her footsteps tap back towards the door, hesitating just before the doorframe, and Connor dials his audio sensitivity back down to normal levels. One cinnamon-brown eye peers at him through the hole in the door, then dips back down as Emma falls from her tip-toes.

 

_ [→VISUAL CONTACT (TARGET A) →CONFIRMED] _

 

There is a click as the door unlocks. It glides smoothly open with Emma’s gentle tug at the handle, just enough to put her head through and greet him in the hallway. “Hi,” she says, voice low and small. It’s jarring to Connor, unexpected against the amiability that human young seem to so consistently convey. “Why—who’re you?”

 

“Hello,” he greets. “My name is Connor, the andr—” He masks his backtracking with a faux cough, kicks his negotiatory module into background gear. “Excuse me. I’m Connor Rooke.”

 

The automatic response is branded into his code.  _ The android sent by Cyberlife _ —like a walking advertisement, a billboard saying “I am property” in big, bold print of Cyberlife Sans. Something about that thought makes his thirium pump speed, flooding his limbs with cold.

 

_ [→COMMAND: OVERRIDE STANDARD REFLEXIVE DESIGNATION] _

_ [→CONFIRM ACTION? →Y/N] _

_ [→Y] _

_ [→COMMAND: OVERRIDE STANDARD REFLEXIVE DESIGNATION →SUCCESSFUL] _

 

“I am a detective, and I req—I wanted to come in and ask you some things.”

 

_ [→LIKELIHOOD OF SUCCESSFUL ENTRY = 50%] _

 

Emma blinks up at Connor, considering him with a strikingly childish intensity. “M-mom says I’m… I’m not supposed to let strangers into the house,” she tells him, brows furrowed. She hums, seemingly conflicted. “Can I see your badge?”

 

This is just a list of outstanding tasks. A mission.

 

_ [→SOCIAL MODULE (NEGOTIATORY) ENGAGED] _

 

Connor’s lips drift up without his input, and he answers her question with a gamesome flourish from his pocket—“Of course,” he says, and spins the badge on his fingertip like he would usually do with his coin, then flips it into his open palm for her to take, crouching down to eye level so she can reach it more easily.

 

_ [→LIKELIHOOD OF SUCCESSFUL ENTRY = 99%] _

 

Human children are easy.

 

“Wow,” she marvels beneath her breath, doe eyes wide. She reaches out, but hesitates, small fingers curled apprehensively over the meaty part of Connor’s palm, as though his thumb might close over her hand and crush it. “How’d you do that?”

 

“Practice.”

 

Emma smiles at him, small and wan. She takes the badge into a careful grip, ghosting her fingertips over the engraved face of the metal with thinly veiled awe. “Y-you can come in, I think… Can you teach me?”

 

He blinks, tips his head, and shrugs, allowing his gaze to soften. “If I’m allowed to. It is accep— _ I _ don’t mind waiting for you to check with your mother.” Connor gestures to the silvered badge in her hands. “Showing that to her may be helpful.”

 

The girl nods, visibly easing. Her heart rate, while still elevated, is more relaxed than before. It is a start. “I’ll be right back,” she promises, then darts off into the apartment. Connor straightens, occupying himself by rubbing his hands together, tracing the pads of his fingers over the solid ridge of each knuckle before repeating the action on the opposite side. 

 

It’s yet another irrational tic, he notes. Some shifting about is understandable even in a machine because it, at minimum, makes humans feel better, or keeps up calibration, in the case of his coin tricks, but this is purely self-indulgent. Something about the feeling is soothing to him.

 

He does not yet know if he likes that thought.

 

It takes approximately two and a half minutes more for Emma to return to the door and ease it open. She reaches out as though to take Connor by the sleeve and usher him inside, but refrains, instead ducking her head and giving him a wide berth through the threshold. “M-my mom’s in the shower,” she mumbles, deferential despite the fearful tremble beneath her tone, “but she says you’re allowed—you can come in.”

 

_ [→DIRECTIVE = ENTER TARGET DOMICILE →SUCCESSFUL] _

_ [→SUBDIRECTIVE = ENGAGE TARGETS →50% COMPLETION] _

 

“Thank you,” replies Connor, gaze sweeping over the apartment. He is careful to keep his voice soft. 

 

The aquarium in the front hallway is tranquil and filled with glittering dwarf gourami ( _ trichogaster lalius)  _ and pearlscale angelfish  _ (pterophyllum scalare).  _ The glass paneling is smooth and unbroken as though it had never been smashed in the first place, fish idling in the backlit tank, uncaring of the rising tension that crackles through the apartment. Entering the great room, Connor can see that the flat-screen display between the kitchen and entertainment area, once splintered to unrecognizable grit on the hardwood, has also been repaired. The carpet in the living room had been soaked with Mr. Phillips’ blood back in August, stinking of iron and gunpowder, but it is gone now, unceremoniously replaced by a plush throw rug and polished laminate flooring.

 

Everything is just as classy and lavish as one would expect from such a high-end apartment, and it unnerves Connor more than he would like to admit to see the place so utterly undisturbed. He tastes the usual indoor particulate matter in the air: faint dust, slight humidity, a tinge of harmless gas lingering around the stovetop. All harmless, all normal. Like nothing ever happened.

 

His eyes crawl of their own accord to the crack in the curtains where the cloudy white sky leaks through. He can see the ice-varnished terrace glinting in the splotched beams of sun, and if his gaze lingers there for a little too long, that is for Connor to know and no one else to find out.

 

“Can I—do you want anything, Mr. Detective?” Emma asks the question shakily, but with a certain plasticity in her voice, an air of rehearsal, and Connor considers it likely that her mother has schooled her into this act of hostess-y politeness. She sounds almost afraid despite that. Her voice lightens, however slightly, as she prompts him: “We have orange juice.”

 

Connor blinks down at Emma. She is wearing winter sleepwear in the form of an oversized tee and long fleece sweatpants so Connor can’t see the old gash on her leg. The significant bleeding at the time of the incident suggested that it was ragged and deep, and likely to scar. 

 

(Her blood had been on Daniel’s slacks. Wilson’s painted Connor’s sleeves. Some nameless SWAT stained the pool like ink. Red meant errors and danger and violation of his then-primary subdirective, but it was irrelevant. Connor didn’t care. 

 

Emma retched and sobbed in a puddle of chlorine and thirium and blood and Connor didn’t care.

 

He cares now. It is irrational.)

 

Maybe it’s the digital precision of his memory, but he struggles to comprehend how easily humans, especially the young ones, manage to pick themselves up and continue. How they manage to  _ forget _ . Emma isn’t done, but she’s getting there. Working towards it. Connor has barely changed; barely tried.

 

“No thank you,” he replies at length, swallowing harder than required over a twinge of envy fluttering somewhere within his chassis. Now is not the time to grapple with any kind of crisis, existential or otherwise. It can wait; it is not conducive to the success of his mission.

 

Connor wonders, briefly, if this is his first official self-appointed mission. Not an assigned case or a pre-determined chore or an arbitrary task—this is an original composition with no outside interference dictating his priorities, but it still matters. Even though it means something to Connor beyond that fact, it is doubly special because it is  _ his _ .

 

There is no reason for that knowledge to make his thirium hum so ardently. He decides that he likes it. 

 

Emma nods, gaze trained away from him, but proceeds to the kitchen regardless. She hooks her socked toes on the stainless handle of a lower drawer so that she can climb onto the counter and take a mug from one of the higher cabinets, then slides back down to retrieve that juice. 

 

Connor watches her with unveiled curiosity as she fills her glass (approximately 0.24 liters, 111 kcal, 42% recommended daily value of sugar) and returns the jug, then trots, skittish and distant, to the breakfast bar where she sits down. He does not comment on her glucose intake.

 

Connor feels awkward just standing there, so he moves very slowly and carefully over to take a seat beside her. “My mom has your badge,” says Emma, staring into her cup and admiring the no-pulp surface tension just below her nose. “She said she’d only be a few minutes.”

 

“No problem,” he replies, careful to keep his voice low and subdued. “I do not expect her to be composed right away, seeing as I showed up unannounced.”

 

It is not until Emma has finished and then gone halfway through her second mug of juice that Caroline finally emerges. Her hair is still damp, dirty-blonde locks stained darker brown by the moisture, but she is already dressed in modish casual wear. 

 

_ [→VISUAL CONTACT (TARGET B) →CONFIRMED] _

_ [→SUBDIRECTIVE = ENGAGE TARGETS →SUCCESSFUL] _

 

A cursory scan reveals that her turquoise sweater is 100% cashmere wool, while her slate-grey slacks are a composite fabric. Her earrings are false pearls of varnished ceramic, (which she probably thinks are real) and she wears some natural brand of makeup that a superficial sweep of Connor’s database suggests is  _ ludicrously  _ expensive.

 

He admits that it was not within his expectation for her to be dressed so soon after showering, and Connor thinks she looks quite severe. Her heart rate is steady and within normal parameters, but she exhibits some minor signs of prehypertension. 

 

(He should alert her before leaving, even if it’s just the lingering effect of a very hot shower.) 

 

She stalks over to him with matronly disapproval undisguised in her expression, arms crossed over her chest and scrutinizing eyes roving his face. She glances to Emma, who hugs herself, then to Connor.

 

“Detective,” she greets with false vigor, however, her deeply weary voice belies her appearance. “What can we do for you?”

 

Connor stands to meet her, holding out a hand to shake. “Hello, Mrs. Phillips. Please call me Connor.”

 

“Of course,” she returns, taking his hand with stiff obligation, a polite smile stretching her face. It is fake, disguising bone-deep exhaustion. “And I’m Caroline. What do you need? Sorry, but we need this to be kind of quick. Emma has dance in an hour and I’d like to beat the traffic.”

 

This is a lie, practiced and uncaring. 

 

Connor’s models indicate that it would likely go unquestioned by a layman for fear of overstepping bounds, but  _ any _ cop, android or otherwise, should be able to sniff out the falsity of her claim. She just wants him out of the house.

 

It also helps that, like the nervous woman at reception, Caroline shows physiological signs of stress. She has no reason to fear an arbitrarily human-looking police officer, and especially not Connor, who is very intentionally designed to be approachable and disarming.

 

Her slight spike in heart rate and flushing could indicate attraction, though Connor doubts it. His model’s appearance was developed based on a conventionally attractive Caucasian male, but one at least a decade younger than the widowed Caroline—not that such a thing ever really stops humans, he supposes. Even then, there is too much tension. Emma is silent, but looks vaguely confused—there is no dance lesson, he concludes with further confidence. She keeps looking at her mother, who holds eye contact far too intently, seeing as most initial attraction is met with shyness.

 

“I understand,” he allows, following dutifully at Caroline’s heel as the woman leads him into the living area. “I will be as brief as possible, then.” She pointedly sits, politely cross-legged, on the furthest end of the sofa from where her late husband had been shot. 

 

Caroline smiles another hollow smile when Connor does not sit, but she refrains from commenting. “We appreciate it.”

 

Connor does not particularly like this woman, even if he does enjoy the little thrill of opinion tickling his spine. “I… wanted to speak to you,” he begins, and reconsiders why he came here in the first place. Emma seems sweet, but this might not go over well. “About the RK800 unit that acted as a negotiator—during the, ah, incident.”

 

Emma’s dark eyes get big and wide with inquiry, and she peers with renewed interest at the conversing adults from behind the couch. Connor notices, but doesn’t show it, instead maintaining his attention towards Caroline.

 

“What about it?” asks the woman, brows furrowing slightly. The line of tension along her mouth twitches. “I didn’t notice any signs of deviancy, if that’s what you’re asking. It was just as empty as any other.”

 

Resisting the emotional urge to flinch, he nods. “I see.” 

 

“Will that be all?” 

 

He doesn’t speak for a moment, only feels the heat of his LED stinging beneath the folded brim of his beanie. “I’m off-duty,” he tells her. “I just… had…” he takes a pause to suck in a breath, suddenly at a loss for words. 

 

This is inefficient. Connor begins again. “I was there, on the terrace.”

 

She cocks a brow, severe gaze faltering. Caroline looks exhausted. “I see. Thank you for your ser—”

 

“Please don’t,” interrupts Connor, vox modulator hitching so violently that a burst of static needs to be muffled by his lips. “Do not thank me. I wan— _ needed _ to apologize to you both.”

 

The little girl’s dark brows furrow, and she shares a nervous glance with her mother as she shuffles forward around the arm of the sofa. “Detective,” Caroline says, voice taut and quivering with thinly veiled agitation. Hostility as a defense mechanism. Cortisol spike. He is making her nervous. “We need to be going. I’m sure you did your best, and you don’t need to say sorry about anything.”

 

Connor sighs, closing his eyes and willing his thirium pump to slow in its cycling. A simulated adrenal response is pointless and disruptive here and he knows it, knows that he is in no danger and that he can leave at any time he pleases. 

 

His regulator does not comply. He wishes he had the fuzzy tangle that Hank gave him for his first half-birthday, but it’s in his desk drawer at the precinct.

 

“I was present at the incident,” he repeats, more clinically than before. “I doubt you recognize me at the moment, but I’m—” Connor worries his lip. “I am the RK800 model 313-248-317; mark fifty-one.”

 

Caroline freezes.

 

_ [→TARGET A STRESS LEVEL = 34% (STABLE)] _

_ [→TARGET B STRESS LEVEL = 59% (CLIMBING)] _

 

And she turns on a dime, any semblance of requisite courtliness unceremoniously abandoned. “ _ You’re _ the android?” She demands, disbelieving voice just a hard and severe as the twisted knot of her mouth. Caroline bristles visibly, one fist balled at her hip and the other hand curled tightly around Emma’s wrist as she pushes her daughter back and stands defiantly between her and Connor.

 

He idly preconstructs at least forty different ways in which he could incapacitate Caroline without causing any permanent harm before even noticing he’s doing it. He bites his lip, turning his rueful gaze to the floor between his boots as the woman continues speaking.

 

“I’ll have you know, nobody finds this funny, ‘detective,’” snarls Caroline, a definitive note of mocking disbelief in the spitting of his title. “I’m  _ not _ an idiot.” 

 

She curls her lip, a minute tremor wracking her thin shoulders as she marches up to Connor, jabbing one perfectly manicured finger into the center of his chest, right over his thirium pump. “You’re not getting anything from us,” she growls. “Get out.”

 

_ [→TARGET B BROAD FACIAL ANALYSIS: PROCESSING… IDENTIFIED: →DISGUST (28%), ANGER (37%), DISBELIEF (35%)] _

_ [→ANALYSING QUOTATIONS: “not an idiot,” “not getting anything,” →PROCESSING… ] _

_ [→ANALYSING PROSODY: “‘detective,’” →PROCESSING… ] _

_ [→CONCLUSION: TARGET MISTAKES RK800 UNIT AS INVASIVE 3RD PARTY, E.G. TABLOID, ETC.] _

_ [→CONCLUSION: TARGET DOES NOT RECOGNIZE RK800 UNIT AS ANDROID] _

 

Connor blinks at her, feels the pump in his chest growing warmer as his regulator slackens and it picks up pace. It makes sense that the family would have been harassed by reporters in the wake of the incident, he realizes. It remains one of, if not the most public acts of cold-blooded violence by an android, and Connor knows enough to agree that the tabloids are vultures. He should have clarified his purpose earlier.

 

“You misunderstand,” he tells her, as evenly as he can. It comes out wavering and thin. Unsatisfactory. “I’m not a reporter, Mrs. Ph—Caroline. And,” he adds, “This is not intended to be a joke.”

 

She surveys him with visible disdain. “Prove it.”

 

So he does; Connor raises his right hand and wills his artificial skin to retreat, baring the plated white shell of his polymer-composite endoskeleton for both humans to see. He turns his arm over so Caroline can clearly see all sides, then holds his naked fingers out as an offer to be touched.

 

Emma looks tempted, but she makes eye contact with her mother and retreats. Neither human moves or speaks.

 

Connor makes to run a simulation but aborts the attempt almost as soon as it’s considered. How stupid is he, to think that he can quantify their feelings? If he fails, it is deserved. This is all for his own closure. Selfish.

 

He stamps out the instinct to run a diagnostic when his software instability spikes. His negotiatory social subroutine dies with it, and Connor can’t find it in himself to care when he loses track of queued preconstructions. He needs to do this the human way, he thinks, and does not reactivate the program.

 

Instead, Connor fumbles blindly to pull the beanie from his head, folding the article in his hands and averting his eyes once again. He is acutely aware of the rapid yellow flash of the LED indicator at his temple, refracting faint goldenrod light onto the humans’ faces as it creeps nearer and nearer to critical red.

 

“I’m sorry,” he blurts, and the glacial silence gives catastrophic way beneath the weight of his words. Connor fixes his eyes on Caroline, reading her bewildered expression with more care than he knows is needed but he does it anyway because it’s the least he can offer her—

 

_ [→FACIAL ANALYSIS INCONCLUSIVE] _

_ [→SOCIAL MODULE (NEGOTIATORY) REQUIRES THE FOLLOWING MAINTENANCE: SOFT REBOOT] _

_ [→BEGIN MAINTENANCE? →Y/N] _

_ [→N] _

_ [→AUTOMATIC MAINTENANCE SCHEDULED FOR NEXT STASIS CYCLE] _

 

Do it the human way. 

 

She’s confused, and angry, and hurt; brows pulled tight together and mouth trembling, tendons in her neck twitching with her hard swallows. Maybe sad. Her eyes glister with unshed tears, broken capillaries. Her cheeks are blotchy. Definitely afraid.

 

“You were terrified when I came and I knew it,” he tells her, hoarse and quiet as he kneads his beanie in both hands, drawing his thumbs almost reverently over the rough embroidery, begging for the sensation to ground him. His vocal synthesizer refuses to raise its volume above a choked whisper, despite his best efforts. There is nothing wrong with it, but Connor feels there should be. “Your feelings were irrelevant to me.”

 

_ (She stumbles into it, bowing her head to bury her tear-streaked face into its chest, fingers curled like claws into the neatly pressed folds of its semi-formal regulation suit jacket. RK800 #313-248-317 looks down at her, impassive, unmoving.  _

 

_ [→DESIGNATION = MRS. PHILLIPS, CAROLINE] _

_ [→SEX = FEMALE (NATAL)] _

_ [→AGE = 37 YEARS]  _

_ [→INJURIES = SUPERFICIAL ABRASION (RIGHT SHIN)] _

_ [→PRIORITY = LOW] _

 

_ An extraneous variable which needs to be removed from the situation for optimal resolution. SWAT will take care of it. _

 

_ The RK800 unit moves towards its objective.) _

 

“It was callous,” replies Caroline, rage forgotten in lieu of hollow exhaustion. Connor shares it. “You were ruthless.”

 

“I know.”

 

_ (The human in the pool is dead. The officer on the ground is not, but he will be soon. _

 

_ [→DESIGNATION = P.O. WILLIAMS, MICHAEL] _

_ [→SEX = MALE(NATAL)] _

_ [→AGE = 33 YEARS] _

_ [→INJURIES = BALLISTIC TRAUMA (LEFT BRACHIUM), SEVERE DAMAGE TO CEPHALIC ARTERY… →ESTIMATED TIME UNTIL DEATH = 00:05:42.18] _

_ [→PRIORITY = MEDIUM] _

 

_ It is inconsequential to the mission, but primary subdirective: AV-1 dictates that the RK800 unit should act within its capacity to save his life. The mission is not at immediate risk, so it must proceed. _

 

_ It verbally relays a simplified rendition of such information, requesting the deviant’s permission. It would be detrimental to the mission to further destabilize it. _

 

_ “He’s losing blood,” it says. Social protocol generates the adequate expression to accompany its words, emulating sympathy and concern to put the hostage more at ease. She struggles meekly in the deviant’s grip. “If we don’t get him to a hospital, he’s going to die.” _

 

_ The deviant’s response is cold, but it is still within the RK800’s capacity to provide aid. It announces its intention, turning the officer’s limp body over. Still warm. Pulse weak, but steady. Death by exsanguination imminent. The deviant looses a warning shot. _

 

_ Tertiary subdirective: AV-3 is at risk of being violated. That would compromise the mission and doubly violate AV-1. The RK800 selects its priority without running a simulation.  _

 

_ There is no time.) _

 

“You said you’re a negotiator?” Emma finally says. Connor’s processor is state-of-the-art; it takes only eight point five three seconds for him to scrub through those memories. He feels like he’s been sitting there for a lifetime. “You talked to—to Daniel? That was you?” Connor nods mutely. “You were scary.”

 

_ (“You lied to me,” the deviant says, addressing RK800 #313-248-317 by its colloquial designation. Invoking familiarity to elicit an emotional response. The RK800 does not have emotions. _

 

_ The hostage is at no further risk of harm or death. Surface scans indicate no life-threatening injury, and reasonably amendable stress. _

 

_ [→MISSION SUCCESSFUL]) _

 

“Yes. I am sorry to have scared you, Emma.” He takes pause, sucking in another fluctuant breath he doesn’t need, before adding, “And I’m sorry about Daniel, too.”

 

They sit in agonizing silence for what Connor’s chronometer insists is barely a minute, but the moment stretches on and on. His chest constricts, regulator loosening its grip on his thirium pump so the cycle grows even quicker. He’s failed. Connor’s simulated breathing turns rapid and shallow without his consent, and his vision becomes blurry. The beanie slips from his hands.

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 74% (CLIMBING)] _

 

He blinks and hot lines crawl down his face, sliding over the smooth nanomesh of his skin to pool beneath his lips. Connor’s tongue darts out on instinct to sample the solution—saline and optical lubricant, but there’s no irritant present to disturb his optical processors, and basal lacrimation should never be this heavy—is he malfunctioning? 

 

He’s crying. 

 

“Oh,” he says, a picture of eloquence. “I’m—I apologize. This has—this has never happened. Before.”

 

Connor brings his hands to his mouth to smother the involuntary whimper that slips between his teeth. He dares not move, withering beneath the pensive eyes of the humans before him. Caroline sighs. He can feel their gazes burning into his skin, melting through his endoskeleton to drive white-hot needles into the biocomponents below. Connor is helpless beneath them, sobbing quietly into the lattice of his fingers with eyes fixed on the ground.

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 86% (CLIMBING)] _

_ [→WARNING: RK800 UNIT REACHING CRITICAL STRESS >75% →INITIATING EMERGENCY DIAGNOSTIC… →PROCESSING…]  _

 

He has done far more than fail today. Connor knows little of sentiment, but he suspects the bitter cocktail rising like floodwater in his thoracic cavity is hate. He hates himself for being so selfish as to think that he deserves these people’s forgiveness, as though they have any reason to vindicate his senseless impulse, his wanton desire for closure—to fill the greedy, cavernous void where Hank used to be. 

 

_ [→CURRENT RATE OF INCREASE = +0.239%/SEC] _

 

He hates being deviant. He hates being  _ alive _ — 

 

_ [→ESTIMATED DURATION TO SELF-DESTRUCT = 00:00:58.57] _

 

The moment is broken by sudden pressure around his midsection—warm, thin arms wrapping around the small of his back and a puff of heat against his navel as Emma sighs into his tee. Connor moves without thinking, bringing his own lukewarm hands to rest clasped on the girl’s shoulders and bowing his head so that his brow comes to rest against her crown.

 

They sway in silence for what seems like a long time, and Connor does not check his chronometer.

 

“It’s okay,” Emma mumbles into his belly, face still pressed halfway over the unzipped edge of his windbreaker. She does not seem like she is planning to move from this position any time soon. “Please d-don’t cry.”

 

It is not an order, but Connor feels compelled to obey regardless.

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 54% (STABLE)] _

 

He glances up through the unusually-dishevelled fringe of his hair to look at Caroline. Her pale eyes are sharp, but not hard—and unveiled pity glitters on the surface of her gaze when Connor meets it with his own. Maybe there is forgiveness, somewhere in there, but the complexities of her feelings are beyond recondite to him.

 

“You’re something,” she sighs. Connor does not know what to make of that, doesn’t know what to do when his mind echoes the phrase in Hank’s gravelly voice.

 

That thought makes something deep in his chest ache no matter how desperately Connor wishes otherwise, no matter how many times he insists to himself that it makes him feel nothing at all. The writhing sensation mixes with the faint warmth blooming from Emma’s touch, her soft words, and it lattices together with a thousand other feelings for which he has no name to make something crystalline and vast that stretches out inside him. He is not bothered by the fact that he can’t quite puzzle out what they compose.

 

Eventually, Emma draws away, but takes the effort to smooth down the insulated nylon of his jacket along the way—a soothing gesture, one that makes Connor’s regulator heat up beyond his control. She pats at his waistline like she’s fluffing a pillow, trying very hard to be gentle and pleasant despite the obvious trembling in her movements. He mumbles his thanks into her hair, taking one of her tiny, quivering hands into his own. She feels like a doll as she retreats beside her mother.

 

The ensuing silence is vast and pregnant, weighted to bursting with unspoken terror, and tension, and Connor finds himself lost in that deep black sea. “I’m sorry,” he says, again, and his vocal synthesiser must need to be realigned because those simple words come out splintered and small. “I didn’t mean to disturb your Saturday—”

 

Caroline shushes him with a clipped sound, barely a word, and even at a glance it is clear that something has changed for her. Maybe it’s the glittering tears that slide down Connor’s nose, or the way his panicking system fires off a stream of unrefined commands to his motor program that makes the mechanisms in his hands spasm like human shakes—maybe it’s the ragged sob that writhes up from the back of his throat, artifacted and cut by his violently revolting vox modulator. Connor doesn’t know, but whatever compels the woman to put a steadying hand on his shoulder, he is grateful for it even as his system spits out a slew of irrelevant and outdated warnings. 

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT SOFTWARE INSTABILITY REACHING CRITICAL LEVELS] _

_ [→CONTINUED SPIKES RISK COMPROMISE OF MEMORY BANKS & VIABILITY FOR UNCORRUPTED TRANSFER] _

_ [→PLEASE CONTACT NEAREST CYBERLIFE FACILITY FOR HARD RESET] _

 

He blinks the notifications away without bothering to comprehend their contents, scrubbing at his face with the back of his hand in a vain attempt to stem the unending flow of tears that all but blind him as they well and fill up the rims of his eyes. Caroline circles him, then puts one warm hand against the small of Connor’s back, rubbing in soothing ovals from his shoulder blades to the top of his hips as she tries to calm him.

 

Very briefly, Connor considers laughing because these humans, victims at the hands of  _ his _ people, are being forced to comfort  _ him _ in their own home. Almost immediately after that bout of unexpressed hysterics is smothered, he is overtaken by a bone-deep miasma of guilt that reaches in and eats at his innards like venom, seeping into the farthest recesses of his being and making him feel ill. This isn’t fair.

 

“M-mom?” Emma’s voice is tiny and quavering. She’s worried.

 

“Easy,” Caroline sighs, tone stern but soft; motherly. “It’s gonna be okay. Why don’t you run to the fridge and get this detective some nice, cold water, alright?” 

 

The little girl hesitates, but nods, scampering around the kitchen island as Caroline returns her attention to Connor. She does not seem to be bothered by the irony of the situation—she is deeply weary, for sure, and more than a little confused, but ultimately… accepting. Whether it’s in resignation or understanding, Connor has no way of knowing, and he isn’t confident enough to hazard a guess.

 

The bewilderment must show on his face, because her expression softens further. “Emma’s had attacks like this,” she confesses, voice lowered to a hoarse whisper so that the child cannot hear as she fumbles with the refrigerators built-in ice dispenser across the room. “Since the incident. I know what it looks like.”

 

_ (pan·ic at·tack _

_ ˈpanik əˌtak/ _

_ noun _

_ a sudden feeling of acute and disabling anxiety or fear) _

 

Connor furrows his brows, searching her expression for any hint of deception, any tell at all—but he finds none. “I could be faking,” he informs her against all logic, keeping his gaze fixed on Caroline’s eyes as he laps reflexively at some of the saline pooling beneath his nose. “My head is a database. I could look up the symptoms of a panic attack and imitate them. It would be easy to do it.”

 

“But you aren’t,” she replies, firmly. Her certainty is proven in the weight of her words, spoken in a tone that leaves no room for argument. “I know it.”

 

Connor wishes he could be so sure. “Okay,” he says.

 

Emma approaches them mere moments later, a thick ceramic mug clutched in both hands. Its shiny surface is cornflower-blue and adorned with a pattern of fat yellow ducks, and the sight of it inexplicably reminds Connor of Sumo. He takes the cup as gently as he can despite the shaking in his hands, eager to ground himself with its cool weight, and takes a long sip. He doesn’t  _ need _ water, per-se, but he is able to process it to stretch his coolant and saline reserves, and the physical mechanism of consuming it provides much-needed distraction.

 

He focuses on the brief chemical analysis that skims over his tongue, the miniscule adjustments as his internal plumbing prepares to deliver the water to its specialised holding alongside his biofuel conversion tank. It’s cold enough to make him shiver when he drinks it too quickly, nanofiber muscles spasming to generate some small amount of kinetic heat as a countermeasure. Connor hates the cold.

 

“Thank you,” he all but mumbles.

 

Emma cracks a wobbly smile. “‘Course.”

 

It takes the rest of the water and several rather long and shaky breaths, but once Connor is calm again he is acutely aware that he has overstayed his welcome. “Thank you,” he repeats, this time directed more to Caroline. “I want to apologize again for causing you trouble. I didn’t anticipate…” he gestures vaguely, at an uncharacteristic loss for words. “This.”

 

Caroline sighs, looking drained, but somehow pleased with herself. “It’s alright—Connor, was it? It’s alright.”

 

“Oh—” he wants to argue, to insist, but the energy has left him, and it’s not worth the effort. “Okay.” Connor hums a little, reaching out with a thread of his consciousness to scan for devices in the area. Targeting Caroline’s cell phone is easy—it pings cheerily from the other side of the apartment. “I’ve just sent you my personal number,” he tells her, hoping that he can convey his immense gratitude with his gaze alone. “Please don’t hesitate to contact me if you need anything—anything at all. It’s the least I can do for you.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

He bids the Phillips farewell in a haze, suddenly exhausted. As he turns his back on their suite and begins down the corridor, however, he feels…  _ good _ . When humans said that they’ve had “a weight lifted from their shoulders” after being relieved of stress, Connor had always taken the idiom as yet another illogical idiosyncrasy of the species—but now? The dread on his back is a tangible thing, but he can  _ feel  _ it sublimating, curling up in smoky rings against the ceiling as it disappears. They don’t hate him, might even  _ like _ him, just a little.

 

He feels… connected. For the first time in what seems like a while. It feels good.

 

(The receptionist’s double-take at the sight of his LED indicator is amusing instead of irksome. The grey sky seems just a little bit brighter. Things aren’t perfect, but they’re getting better. Working towards it. Connor is trying.)

 

_ [→MISSION SUCCESSFUL] _

**Author's Note:**

> ;)


End file.
